What Could Have Been
by Femme aux Mille Visages
Summary: A kiss to one is a broken dream to another, a wistful fantasy that never will and never can be.


People were always quick to comment on how much Albus Severus Potter looked like his father. Same untidy black hair, same green eyes, same slight Seeker's build and same knobby knees. All he lacked was the scar on his forehead-but Harry never mentioned their similarities to Al himself. He looked nearly as much like James, and he remembered how tired he was of hearing "You look just like your father Harry, except you have your mother's eyes" and the variations thereof. But it didn't seem to bother Al or even James too much-maybe it was because their parents were alive. Either way, Harry still didn't bring it up too much.

Al liked playing Seeker best, as Harry always had, and he was an excellent flier even before he went to Hogwarts. He was bright, although not particularly studious, and his best subject was probably going to be Charms, given his bursts of accidental magic. Mrs. Weasley always remarked on this to Ginny, how 'like father, like son' they were. Ginny often pretended not to hear, and Mrs. Weasley did not often repeat herself once the moment had passed. Harry always wondered how similar they were, though.

Albus was sorted into Gryffindor, like his brother and cousins before him-_did you choose Gryffindor, Al? Or were you put there? How much are you really like me?-_but he never asked his son. It didn't seem that important, as long as his son was happy. What he was surprised to hear, however, was that Al had befriended the son of his longtime school rival. Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy resembled Malfoy as much as Al resembled Harry, that was clear. But from the sound of Al's letters, he wasn't similar to his father in personality at all. A Ravenclaw, timid and book-smart, with a terrible fear of heights and a great love of toffee. Their friendship was an odd one, from the sounds of it, but he supposed he could only be grateful that they received half as many detentions as he and Ron had.

But still, their friendship nagged him. He supposed it was normal-after all, there were too many similarities for people not to comment on it-and he couldn't help wondering if this is what his life could have been like, had he accepted Draco's offer of friendship. _No, _a little voice in his head tells him. _No, because you grew up in an era of divided loyalties. No, because you were a Gryffindor and he was a Slytherin. No, because his father worked for the man who killed your father and your mother, and took from you all you might have loved. _But sometimes, he can't help but wonder.

It is not until fourth year that Al dares to ask permission to have Scorpius over for the Easter holidays. The way he tenses before he asks makes Harry feel ashamed-_you've never had a problem with James's friends, or Lily's. Grow up, Harry. Scorpius is not his father_-and he readily agrees. He's not sure if Al knows about the animosity between himself and Draco, because he and Ginny have been careful never to bring it up, but he's probably heard it from the Weasleys. Ron, most likely. Al is overjoyed, though, and so Harry pushes the doubts to the back of his mind. He picks Scorpius up at the platform, along with his own three children, and any doubts he might have had are quickly gone. Scorpius is polite and intelligent, with none of the arrogance his father had. He's not sure if he'll bring him to the Weasleys' yet, but he likes him well enough. The two boys seem to exist in their own private universe, which is fine with Harry until he sees them at the top of the stairs one evening, long after he told them to go to bed.

They are locked in an embrace, the moonlight casting shadows over them so they are half unseen, white hair and black forming perfect opposition. If it had been anyone else, any other moment, he could have taken a picture, it was just that beautiful. It has all the clumsiness of teenagers first exploring love and lust-too much tongue, pulling too hard on the other's hair, the awkward uncertainty of what to do with the rest of their bodies; but it is charming nonetheless. He backs away into the hallway, filled with-sadness? He's not sure. Maybe because he's spent decades consoling his sixteen year old self, telling them that the man he wants and loves will never love him in return. That the hero doesn't get to love the beautiful and tragic figure trapped by unfortunate circumstance. Berating himself for even thinking of Dr-_Malfoy,_ that way, as if he didn't know what he was getting into, as if he were anything but a cowardly, arrogant prick. _Look what he did to Hermione! Look what he did to Hagrid! _And it must be his saving-people-thing kicking in again because he wants, he desperately wants to save Draco and love him and hold him. But that chance died out years ago. He loves Ginny deeply, and he is happy with his marriage and his kids-content. And maybe that is why this kiss means so much to him, because there is nothing content about it. It is full of desperation and lust and teenage hormones and volatile emotions. It is everything he and Draco might have been, had either of them had the courage to say where their obsession stemmed from. It is everything they are not, and he can't help wondering if that's what he might have looked like kissing that prat.

He leaves, quietly, knowing that they will never know he was there. They are too wrapped up in each other to notice or care. He leaves them to their pretty little fantasy world, where dreams and delusions are reality and no one is ever unhappy, it seems. Where 'war' is a thing of history books and Voldemort merely a name. He laughs inwardly at his bitterness, berates himself for his anger over their naiveté, critiques himself for his cynical, clichéd outlook on life. It doesn't help, because at the end of the day he is married to Ginny, who he loves _[but not enough] _and he has responsibilities now _[excuses for your cowardice I thought you were a Gryffindor] _and his son is the one who gets the fairytale ending _[and what kind of father are you anyway?]_

So he goes back to bed, and lets the moment slip away.


End file.
